I'm selfish, aren't I?
I have a perfect house, perfect clothes,
all the things I could want,
all the food I could taste.
So why—why am I still wanting more?
"All the materialistic pleasures never
bought a single dime of happiness."
So it is true, then—I realise.
How I wish to be a bird, capable of
flying away from all worries,
never, ever restrained to the same people
or the same place.
How I wish to be a kitten, capable of
meowing away all sadness,
never, ever troubled to be unhappy,
to care.
How I wish to be anything, anyone other than
myself; my too-feeling, never-felt,
my too-caring, never-cared-for,
my too-loving, never-loved self.
So I escape in my dreams, in the places
and scenarios my brain creates,
accomplice to my dear heart,
caught between greedy desires and wistful guilt,
torn between gratitude and want.